


Hark the Gathering Storm

by debirlfan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Garbage tier magical item, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debirlfan/pseuds/debirlfan
Summary: In a world of adventurers, Erik takes a short cut.  He soon wishes he hadn't.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Hark the Gathering Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blahblahwhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwhy/gifts).



“Cut through the swamp, Erik,” Bafuor had suggested. “It's much shorter. It will be faster.”

“Right,” Erik grumbled under his breath, as he used his dagger to hack loose yet another vine that was blocking his path. “Cutting through the swamp is a lot faster, if you're a damn mage with a levitation spell.”

Unfortunately, Erik wasn't a mage, and he didn't have a levitation spell. He was covered in mud, gnawed on by insects, and with every step he took, the bog beneath his feet threatened to pull off his boots.

As much as he wanted to blame Bafuor—and possibly wring his neck—Erik had to admit that his current circumstances were at least partially his own fault. When his party had left _The Melting Goose Tavern_ three days earlier, it had been his idea to detour through Ormrius to see his mother, and to join the others in Sainora, rather than just accompanying them on their journey.

He really should have known better. It wasn't that he expected a warm welcome, but he had hoped that she would at least be civil. That, apparently, was too much to ask. His mother would never forgive him for not becoming a farmer, as his brother had. As far as she was concerned, “adventuring” was akin to piracy, or worse. It made no difference to her that in the course of their adventures, he and his friends often provided a service to the locals, ridding their environs of dangerous creatures.

Lost in his own thoughts, Erik didn't notice the bright glint of metal ahead until he was almost upon its source.

“Now what the hell is that?” he asked himself, as he neared. The glint was the golden hilt of a sword, the blade of which protruded from where it stood half buried in the mire.

Erik circled the sword, examining it. There were stones set into the hilt; emeralds and blood stones if he wasn't mistaken. Despite the muck that surrounded it, that portion of the blade that was visible was spotless, and appeared finely honed.

Given its condition, Erik knew the sword had to be magical. Any normal sword would have rusted away in short order. He hesitated. There was always a risk when dealing with an unknown magical item. Years earlier Adalwyn had thoughtlessly donned a cloak she'd found in a lich's laboratory, and had immediately been turned to stone. It had taken a month long quest to find a powerful cleric and a large offering of gold pieces to the god of health to bring the thief back to life.

Not that it actually meant anything, but the sword didn't look dangerous. At least, it wasn't clasped in the hand of a skeleton, and there were no dead plants or animals nearby. Despite the risk, the sword was really too tempting to leave behind in the midst of a swamp.

Saying a quick prayer to the god of fools, Erik reached forward and wrapped his hand around the hilt. When nothing happened, he gently pulled upwards.

The sword slipped easily from the bog, the impression where it had been quickly closing behind it with an audible slurp. Within moments, all traces that it had ever rested there were gone.

With it now in his hand, Erik turned his full attention to the sword. The blade was perhaps the length of his forearm, and nearly the width of his wrist. An experimental swing showed that it was well balanced. The flecks of mud that remained on its point dripped away, leaving it pristine. Erik was impressed with the craftsmanship. It was as much a work of art as it was a weapon.

Careful to keep the bag clear of the muddy marsh, Erik slipped his knapsack from one shoulder, swinging it around so that he could open it. He pulled his sleeping mat from it, then wrapped the mat around the sword to protect it before stowing it in the pack. There was no way he intended to wield it until Bafuor had checked for curses.

Once he had re-shouldered the knapsack, Erik set out again for Sainora.

_“Hey, it's dark in here!”_

The unexpected voice loud in his ear nearly caused Erik to jump out of his skin. He whipped his head around to see who was behind him, only to find nobody there.

He was hallucinating, Erik rationalized. Perhaps it was the fumes from the decaying peat; the swamp did stink heavily of rotting vegetation. That had to be it, he convinced himself, and the sooner he got out there, the better. He started to step forward--

_“I said it's dark in here! Can't you at least crack the top open a little?”_

This time he did jump, or at least he would have if not for the mire sucking at his boots. As it was, he stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell face first into the mud. There was still no one behind him, which could only mean....

He pulled the knapsack from his back, no longer particularly concerned with keeping it clean. Untying the cord that held it shut, the pulled the bag open. “Did you say that?” he demanded of the half-wrapped sword.

 _“No. That chunk of slightly moldy bread you saved from your lunch has suddenly came to life.”_ There was a long, suffering sigh. “ _Of course I said it. And that bread really needs to go.”_

“You talk.” It was more of a statement than a question, even though he'd never heard of a talking sword.

_“Isn't that rather obvious? I talk. In fact, I speak a number of languages. I can smell the mold on this bread. And I can see that snake that's about to crawl up your left leg.”_

Snake? Erik looked down. Sure enough, the snake was just about to wrap itself around his leg. He hated snakes, even ones that weren't poisonous, and he wasn't about to take the time to find out whether or not this one was. Reaching down, he grabbed it by the tail and hurled it just as far as he could.

_“Aren't you going to thank me?”_

“Ah, yeah, thank you.” He considered asking how the sword had seen the snake, given its lack of eyes, but then, it didn't have a mouth, either.

_“Can we get going, please? I've had quite enough of this place, and you might want to go before your slimy little friend slithers back here.”_

The sword had a point, in more ways than the obvious one. Erik tossed the offending slab of leftover bread then tightened the knapsack cord just enough that nothing would fall out. “Is that acceptable?” he asked, feeling a bit silly for asking the blade about its comfort level.

_“It will do.”_

“Very well, then.” Erik shouldered the pack and resumed his journey. “So, do you have a name?”

_“Of course I have a name. Do you?”_

“Erik. Erik the Mountainborn.” The silence stretched for several minutes. “Well?”

There was a long pause. _“Herman.”_

“Herman?” Erik nearly laughed. “Not, oh, I don't know. Maybe Dragonslayer, or something like that?

_“Herman. Just Herman. The blacksmith who forged me named me after his deceased cousin.”_

“Well, Herman is a perfectly good name.”

_“Don't patronize me. It's a perfectly good name for a dead cousin. For a magical sword, not so much. It's embarrassing.”_

Perhaps a bit embarrassing for the wielder as well, not just for the sword. “Why don't you change your name?”

_“You think I haven't tried? I can't. It's part of the enchantment.”_

* * *

It was nearly dark by the time they reached Sainora, and Erik found _The Bronze Tiger Inn_. His friends were seated around a table in the far corner near the fireplace.

Adalwyn looked up as he crossed the room to join them. The elven thief grinned. “Hey, look what the rats dragged in. What took you so long?”

She was lucky that Erik liked her. He glared at Bafuor. “You mean besides the knee-deep mud?”

Cleric Gorric signaled the barkeep. “Another round,” he called, “And a bowl of stew for our friend.” He turned to Erik. “It rather looks like you brought half of that mud in with you.”

Erik shrugged off his pack, setting the knapsack down beside the table and pulling up a chair. He dropped wearily into it. “Four hours slogging through that damned swamp. You owe me,” he told Bafuor, glaring at the mage as the serving wench brought a tray with his stew and fresh tankards of ale.

The mage sighed, uttered a few words that Erik didn't catch, then snapped his fingers. The mud disappeared with an audible pop. “There. You're clean. Are we even?”

Erik tried a spoonful of stew. While it was a bit bland for his tastes, it was hot and thick and undoubtedly would prove to be filling. He turned his attention back to Bafuor. He hadn't forgotten the snake. “No. We're not.”

“You want me to get down on my knees and apologize?”

Erik reached into his sack and pulled out the sword, letting the wrappings fall away. He laid it on the table. “I want you to run an identify spell on this and make sure it's not cursed.”

At the sight of the sword, there were various sounds of surprise from those seated around the table. “Pretty!” Adalwyn exclaimed, the thief's fingers twitching at the sight. "Where did you get that?"

“I found it. And don't you get any ideas,” Erik warned her. He turned to the mage. “Well?”

Bafuor hesitated, then reached into his robe and pulled out a scroll. He untied the ribbon from around it, smoothed out the parchment, and began reading out loud in a language Erik didn't understand. Once he was finished, the mage swept his hands back and forth over the sword.

“It's magical, but I gather you already recognized that. I sense no curse. There is a special affinity for the various undead, it should be most effective against skeletons and vampires.” Finished with his examination, Bafuor fed the used scroll to the flame of one of the candles that lit their table.

Erik finished the stew. “One thing you didn't mention.” He picked up the sword. “Herman, say something.”

There was no response from the sword.

“Herman?” Gorric asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The sword. He speaks.” He gave the weapon a slight shake. “Herman, come on!”

At the far end of the table, Mirielis, who had so far remained silent, spoke, laughing. “Just how long were you in that swamp?”

Erik was too tired to argue. He shoved the sword back into his knapsack and gulped down the rest of his ale. He would sort it out tomorrow. “Screw it. I'm going to bed. You did reserve me a room, right?”

* * *

Alone in his room, Erik pulled the sword from his bag and slammed it down on the table.

_“Ow! Take it easy, will you!”_

“Oh, so now you talk. You couldn't have piped up and said something in front of my friends?”

_“I'm shy. And they're not your friends. At least the magic user isn't, and I didn't like the way that elf was eyeing me.”_

Erik waved his hand in dismissal. “That's just Adalwyn. She's a thief. She covets everything, but we have an understanding. As much as she might want to, she won't touch my stuff.” As he began to strip off his clothes, he considered the rest of the sword's words. “What do you mean about Bafuor?”

_“The mage?”_

“Yeah.”

_“He's no mage. Well, maybe he is, but that 'spell' he cast on me was nothing but a scam. I told you I know a bunch of languages. That supposed scroll he read was in Orcish.”_

Orcish? That was strange. “Orcs aren't known for magic.”

_“Precisely. It was no scroll. It was actually a to-do list from a female to her mate, and a few suggestions of what she would do to him if he didn't complete his tasks. I might add that I'm really glad that I'm not her mate.”_

“Well I'll be damned.” Erik considered the boot he had just removed and now held in his hand. The clean boot. “Wait, he must be a mage. I've seen him cast fireballs. For that matter, he snapped his fingers and got rid of all that mud.”

Herman snorted. _“Maybe he just didn't want to waste a scroll on me, then. But cleaning you up? That's nothing but a cantrip children learn to get out of doing the dishes. Dirty. Poof! Clean.”_

“So what he said about you....?”

_“Nothing but a bunch of malarkey. You take me into a fight against a vampire thinking I've got some power over the undead and you're going to get sucked on.”_

“Other than speaking, you don't have any special enchantments, then?” It was probably petty to be disappointed—after all, a talking sword—but Erik had really hoped for more.

_“I didn't say that. As a matter of fact, I am incredibly effective against storm giants.”_

Erik snorted. “A lot of use that is. There hasn't been a storm giant in these parts for decades.”

_“Correct. And just who do you think you have to thank for that, hmm?”_

* * *

The next morning, Erik tucked his old sword into his pack and sheathed Herman instead. When he went down and joined the others for breakfast, nothing was said about the night before. There were no comments about a talking sword, and while Erik planned to keep a close eye on the mage, he didn't question him about the supposed identification scroll.

The ruins they set out to explore were nearly an hour's march out of town, and rumored by the locals to be inhabited by a number of nasties.

What had once been a temple to Ovbris was now mostly vine covered, fallen stones. Mirielis found a stairway leading downwards, and the female fighter took point, with Gorric a step behind. From the middle of the formation, Bafuor cast a light spell. Adalwyn and Erik brought up the rear.

The crypts beneath the temple were cold and dank. The stones that made up the walls were damp, glistening in the meager light from Bafuor's spell. Despite the musty, stale air, the floor was littered with tracks, indicating that they were not alone.

Mirielis raised a finger to her lips, indicating a need for stealth. Not that the party, with rattling armor, weapons and hard-soled boots, was even remotely silent.

They moved deeper within the ruins, passing a number of bones and several smashed chests, finding nothing worth looting. As they descended another set of stairs, Erik's nose twitched. He signaled the others to halt, and made an obvious show of sniffing the air. One by one, the rest of the party nodded, as they too noted the faint scent of smoke.

They were close to their quarry. Erik slid Herman from his sheath as they continued down the steps. At the bottom of the staircase, the hallway turned a corner. The smell of smoke was stronger here, and the hall abruptly opened into a chamber, with a small fire burning in the far corner. Between them and the fire were a group of kobalds, seemingly disturbed during their dinner and now grabbing weapons.

Mirielis and Gorric rushed forward, attacking with their weapons. Bafuor intoned a spell, and Adalwyn nocked an arrow, quickly releasing it into the fray. Erik closed on the nearest kobold, swinging Herman at the creature's head.

The sword sliced cleanly through the kobold, who ignored it and continued to attack. Thinking he had somehow missed, Erik swung the sword again, only to see it pass harmlessly through his opponent's neck. Erik managed to sidestep the kobold's dagger. Before either of them could do anything else, an arrow took the kobold down.

“Thanks!” Erik shouted to Adalwyn, shoving Herman back into his sheath and grabbing the dagger from his fallen foe. Figuring out why the sword had caused no damage would have to wait.

Once he was properly armed, Erik and his friends made short work of their remaining enemies. While Gorric and Bafuor extinguished the kobold's cooking fire, Erik took the opportunity to swap Herman with the old, trusty sword he'd consigned to his pack that morning, shoving Herman deep into the bag and tightening the opening. If the sword didn't like the dark, then it shouldn't have nearly gotten him killed.

The party split between them the meager treasure they found; a few usable pieces of armor and weapons, several gems and a small pile of gold and silver coins.

The remainder of the ruins were devoid of life, other than a single troll. The troll put up a good fight, but eventually their numbers won out and the party finished him off. Mirielis was slightly injured in the battle, the troll's claw barely catching her across the thigh, but Gorric was able to heal the wound without difficulty. Once she was healed, they gathered up the troll's treasure and made their way back to the surface. The decision was made to head back to the inn, spend the night there, and then decide on their next adventure.

* * *

It was well after dark and the moon was high in the sky by the time Erik retreated to his room. When the residents of Sainora had learned that the party had dispatched the troll that had been intermittently raiding the town, they had insisted on demonstrating their gratitude. That gratitude had consisted, in large part, of a number of rounds of the tavern's finest ale.

 _“Let me out!”_ Herman's somewhat muffled but indignant voice demanded, even as Erik closed the door.

“Give me one good reason why I should!” Erik demanded, shrugging the pack from his shoulders.

_“It's dark in here, and I'm claustrophobic.”_

“That's not my problem. Why should I do anything for you when you nearly got me killed?” Despite his words, Erik did relent and loosen the cord that held the bag shut.

 _“Ah. Finally.”_ The sword sighed in relief. _“Now why are you blaming me when I warned you? Kobolds are not storm giants.”_

“You said you had special enchantments versus stone giants, not that you were totally useless against anything else!” Erik stared at the sword in disbelief. “Why would anyone forge a sword like that?”

_“Isn't it obvious? For safety. Do you have any idea what it takes to kill a storm giant? What do you think would happen if a weapon designed with the magic and strength to kill a giant struck a human? What if the wielder missed their target? What if the giant got his hands on that weapon and turned it against his opponents? It would be slaughter. So they made me so I can't be used against anyone or anything else, either accidentally or intentionally.”_

Herman's explanation served to defuse a little of Erik's anger. It was a ridiculous way to forge a magic item, and yet it did make a certain amount of sense. Unfortunately, given the lack of local storm giants, it also made the sword worthless. Unless.... “I don't suppose you'd consider getting over your shyness? You might not be any good in a fight, but you could help me win a few bar bets, at least.”

 _“I can't.”_ For once, the sword sounded almost apologetic. _“It's not actually shyness. I'm unable to speak in front of anyone except my owner.”_

Erik groaned. “So I have an absolutely useless magical sword. What am I supposed to do with you? Sell you to some other poor, unsuspecting slob?”

_“Good luck with that.”_

“Oh let me guess. You can't speak in front of anyone, the only creature you can be used against hasn't been seen in decades, and I'm stuck with you.” It just got better and better. He tugged on the strap of his knapsack. “As if this isn't already heavy enough.”

_“That's not quite what I said.”_

“So I can sell you, then?” Erik asked, confused.

_“You can sell me. But if you do, the next day I'll show up among your possessions again, and it's likely the merchant you sold me to will accuse you of stealing me back.”_

“What if I give you away?” He wondered who he knew that was gullible enough to accept a gifted sword.

_“No different. I'll just end up back in your pack.”_

“But there is a way to be rid of you?”

 _“Yes._ ” Herman admitted.

“I don't suppose you'd tell me what it is?” Erik knew before asking that would be far too simple.

_“Sorry. You'll have to figure that out on your own.”_

Erik was tired. It had been a long day, he'd drank too much, and now he was playing word games with a talking sword. “Fine. I'm going to get some sleep. I'll deal with you in the morning.”

* * *

Despite the previous evening's indulgences, Erik woke early, shortly after dawn. A quick check found that his friends were still sleeping. He found a scrap of parchment and scribbled a note, then slipped it beneath Gorric's door.

Returning to his room, he slid Herman back into his pack, loosely securing the bag before shouldering it and heading out.

 _"Where are we going?_ " The sword asked, with what sounded suspiciously like a yawn.

“You'll see.” He knew it wouldn't take Herman long to put it together.

Indeed, the sword did figure it out quickly. _“You're taking me back to the swamp.”_

Erik noted what Herman wasn't saying. “I don't hear you claiming that it won't work.”

Herman sighed. _“It will work. I just don't like it. It's muddy and wet and boring.”_

Despite being less than enthused by the idea of spending any additional time trudging through the mire, Erik wasn't entirely unsympathetic. “I'll try to find you a relatively dry spot.”

* * *

It was nearly noon by the time Erik made his way back to Sainora, his mission of losing the sword in the swamp complete. He was surprised to find the town strangely quiet, shops that were usually bustling with traffic appeared closed for the day. The lack of people in the streets left him with a vaguely uneasy feeling, but he shrugged it off, thinking that perhaps it was some local holiday.

Even the inn was nearly deserted, save for the barkeep and Erik's friends gathered around a table in the far corner. He crossed to join them, pulling up a spare chair from another table.

“Where in the seven Hell's have you been?” Mirielis asked, as he sat down.

“Had something I had to take care of.” He glanced around the empty room. “Today a holiday or something?”

Adalwyn looked up from her drink. “You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?”

It was Bafuor who answered. “The town just to the south was attacked last night. There's nothing left of it.”

Erik buried his face in his hands. He knew. The way his luck had been running.... He knew. “Let me guess. It was a storm giant.”

Gorric raised an eyebrow. “How did you know? Actually it's more than one. Evil creatures. First time they've been seen in these parts in ages.” He paused for a moment. “What on Earth? Erik, are you crying?”


End file.
